


Endless Romantic Stories

by ftwnhgn



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: (later) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotions, Established Relationship, Haphephobia, M/M, Modern Era, Original Character Death(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftwnhgn/pseuds/ftwnhgn
Summary: Hamlet/Horatio drabbles and one-shots.





	1. oh, how it's been so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Work-title from "Far Too Young To Die" - Panic! At The Disco.
> 
> When you reread Hamlet that's what you get, folks. So, don't reread Hamlet. Unless you love to be sucked into tragedy and gay subtext once more, then go ahead, feel free to suffer!
> 
> Inspired by tumblr posts and headcanons, esp. one about Hamlet hating to be touched.

When Horatio enters their apartment, coat cold and wet from the rain and his black hair not as slicked back as it was when he left this morning, he hears Hamlet before he actually sees him, of course. It's not unusual – anything else would have been, Horatio thinks – but that doesn't make it less unpleasant when he hears Hamlet's voice loudly directed at him.

“Horatio, Horatio, you are back. Where, for _God's_ sake, did you go this early?” Hamlet shouts.

Must be in the kitchen.

Horatio stays not bothered by the demanding tone. He takes off his shoes and puts them under the radiator to dry and hangs his coat on the rack in their hallway, checks himself in the mirror once and then decides to follow the echo of Hamlet's voice into, _indeed_ , the kitchen.

“Classes,” is his dry answer as he spots Hamlet sitting at the kitchen table, feet propped on the dark wood and several books and papers lying around and on top of each other on it. He looks like a mad man, Horatio concludes. But he would be more concerned about every day that Hamlet doesn't look like he's mad. So he doesn't comment on it, moves to prepare himself some tea and because he's seen Hamlet's empty mug on the table fills the kettle with enough water for two mugs. When he's done, he turns around and leans against the counter, waiting for the water to boil.

Hamlet blinks at him as if he's still considering what Horatio told him a few minutes ago.

“Well. Then don't go so bloody early. I was freezing madly when I woke up,” he says, the unspoken message left between them clearly. Crossing his arms in front of his chest like a petulant child while doing so.

A good reminder of the few years that Horatio is older than him. Sometimes, when they're around other people Horatio tends to forget about Hamlet's actual age; the Denmark always acting much more mature and serious at social events, especially when his uncle and mother are around. Hamlet's face gets more pronounced, more like ivory when they are around. He's thoughtful and intelligent, _very_ intelligent – that much Horatio learned early on during their time in Wittenberg – but he's also a dreamer and a talker. He doesn't dare to dream out loud and talks frequently less when he's around his family. Or what's left of them anyway.

Horatio noticed that. He notices a lot of things. Hamlet always gives him shit for it.

“I will let the professor know then,” Horatio answers and turns around to fill the mugs with the hot water. He puts milk and sugar into Hamlet's and lets his own mug untouched. “I'm sure she'll appreciate knowing why I can't attend her class.”

Hamlet slaps him on the arm when Horatio puts the tea down in front of him, one hand brushing through the Denmark's hair in an intimate gesture.

Hamlet doesn't flinch – that's what makes it so different between them. Hamlet flinches whenever he gets touched, or he ducks out of the way or scrubs his skin red, red, red in the shower after his mother hugs him goodbye or his uncle shakes his hand. But never with Horatio. It took them a lot of time, years even, to build this sort of trust between them but since Hamlet allowed Horatio to put a hand on his forehead when he's been insanely ill; ugly fever and shakes included; it's grown from there to what they have now. A comfortable space where Hamlet lets Horatio touch him and where Horatio is allowed to drop a short kiss on his forehead before he sits down next to him, just like right now.

“You're impossible,” Hamlet says as he sees Horatio putting his own mug on a newspaper page – the _sports section_ , not important then – and takes a sip from his own tea. “In every way.”

“In every way. Is that so?” Horatio retorts in the same dry tone as before, one eyebrow arched.

Hamlet nods, not missing a beat. “Yes.”

Horatio looks at him, seemingly thinking about something while his dark eyes take Hamlet's features in, the light-brown hair, the light eyes and the childish frown on his face as well as the expensive fabric of his clothes – all black, just like every day – and the way his frown starts to curl into a teasing but loving smile.

“Well, then,” Horatio says and pushes Hamlet's feet down from the table with one swift movement of his arm. He was always stronger than Hamlet, using his free time for runs and hitting the gym regularly as a way to blow off some steam or just have some time alone, to _think_. “You'll just have to sleep on your own tonight, on the couch preferably. When I'm so impossible, young man.”

Horatio gets the reaction he already imagined in his head.

Hamlet is wincing, scrambling into a healthier posture to grab Horatio by the arm of his dark-blue sweater. “No, no, no, no, no. I didn't mean it like that,” he rushes, his eyes awake with a funny state of immediate regret and panic; a mirror of his emotions.

Horatio snorts and calmly removes Hamlet's pale fingers from his clothes. “Of course not, love.” He takes Hamlet's delicate hand in his. “But you get what you give.”

 

 


	2. where they always have belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here and kicking. Christmas break is a gift sent from heaven.
> 
> Title of the chapter taken from Panic! At The Disco's "Let's Kill Tonight".

Hamlet comes back from Denmark on a Friday, late at night and Horatio is standing two feet away from the door in their dark hallway. He watches as Hamlet's key turns in the lock and as he opens the door and as he takes a step inside, flicking the light on in the process.

“Horatio.” It's not a question and not an exclamation. Hamlet doesn't sound excited or happy, instead his voice is filled with weakness and a tiredness not even hundred hours of sleep can cure. “You're still awake.”

 _You waited for me_ is the unspoken truth between them, which is why Horatio just nods before he shortens the distance between them and takes Hamlet's bag from his shoulder to put it next to their coat check. There's nothing that can't wait until tomorrow in there anyway and Hamlet will be glad to be physically away from everything inside that reminds him of his family – or what's left of them, which isn't something Hamlet calls family anymore. Not since his father's death.

 So, Horatio doesn't talk until Hamlet is out of his jacket and he doesn't touch him until Hamlet is settled into bed next to him, about a hand's length between them. He waits until Hamlet is turning his face and then his body towards him and his bony fingers weave through Horatio's own.

A signal – _you can touch me now, it's alright. I'm alright now._

“So, not good?” Horatio asks into the darkness.

Hamlet shakes his head, even visible in the darkness of the bedroom, his messy hair a contrast to the white pillowcase. “Claudius introduced me to a girl, thought her perfectly suited as my wife,” he says, disdain clear in his quiet voice.

Horatio lets the words rest between them for a few beats of silence, in which he turns them over in his mind. No wonder that Hamlet’s mood was as sour as ever when he arrived back home. It’s been one thing of Claudius and Hamlet’s mother to frown and ignore the young Denmark’s living situation and his relationship with Horatio, them still acting as if Horatio is merely an acquaintance Hamlet will get rid of sooner than later. It’s a whole new one that they’re trying to marry him away - no nice phrases left for what they do – and even as much as believe that Hamlet will settle for a person they chose. Horatio would love to snort at Hamlet’s words, but he can’t, there’s too much spite and anger in Hamlet’ sentence, too much unfamiliarity in his movements and his attitude when he came back.

It makes Horatio’s hands itch with the urge to throw glasses against walls and tables off their legs, his calm and collected self at the bay at the slightest disruption of Hamlet’s peace.

“Don’t.”

Hamlet’s voice travels to Horatio’s ears in nothing more than a whisper, but the warmth in his tone wraps around the cold and coiling steel in Horatio’s head and stomach. At least it’s not in his heart this time around. Not like once, a longer time ago, when Hamlet crouched close to him, all broken mind and broken heart and broken life, and told him that his father was no longer the immortal man he made him out to be as a child. Horatio hasn’t felt that in years – a clear sign that no major events have touched Hamlet like his father’s death since they’ve known each other.

“What?” Horatio asks to the press of bony, bird-like fingers against his temple.

Hamlet smiles curtly. “Don’t do this to yourself. There’s no need. I’m home. I’m _fine_. They can’t do anything to me when I’m here.” _With you_.

The fingers move up to Horatio’s forehead and smooth the line between his eyebrows and the ones higher up, near his hair-line. When they’re done, they move on to the already forming crow’s feet around Horatio’s eyes – Hamlet calls them laughter lines, while they are anything but that, they both know Horatio rarely laughs – even though they won’t go away by the touch of the Denmark’s finger pads. It’s a losing battle, really, and Hamlet should know that by now, but as always in his life, Hamlet doesn’t give up, won’t even dare it a thought, no matter how small the matter is.

Horatio knows they can’t harm Hamlet and that he’s old enough to make decisions for himself and for them. Still, Claudius and Gertrude are out there and their presence is an ever reoccurring reminder of the nightmare Hamlet could fall back into, and Horatio doesn’t want that to happen.

So, he does what he does best; he just nods and lets Hamlet rest his thinner frame against his chest and between his arms and waits for sleep to take him over, while his mind maps out different ways to get rid of any person that could harm Hamlet.

He sleeps uninterrupted until Hamlet wakes him with nudges against his elbow and black coffee.


	3. but it's better if you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title credit "But It's Better If You Do" - Panic! At The Disco and that can be credited to the movie Closer.

Winter is ruthless and biting and it feels like it’s been like that for years when it’s early January. Horatio is outside, standing in front of the old university building, his jet-black coat and perfectly placed hair in the same shade of darkness since his birth a stark contrast against the beige brick behind and the white snow around him. The strict smoking ban ruling all rooms inside the house behind him are the only reason he’s on the brink of freezing to death around four p.m. on the brink of darkness. It’s a clear day, which is a rare amenity Horatio learned to cherish years ago, while residing in Denmark.

The cigarette is cold and papery against his index and middle finger and wouldn’t he be so hell-bent on digging himself an early grave before he turns fourty due to lung cancer he would’ve already been inside and ready for his physics class ten minutes ago, but to each their own, he thinks while taking another drag and huffs the air out into the cold.

Surely close to freezing point, even the blue sky won’t extenuate that and if there’s something Horatio can’t deal with it is low temperature. Not because he freezes easily, except when he’s outside and only standing around, of course, but Hamlet can be insufferable for several reasons – the radiator isn’t working, the bed is not warm enough alone, the shower water is running cold too fast (a lie),  Horatio is not dressed in enough layers for this weather, Horatio could get sick, Horatio should not go to class because the sidewalks and streets are slippery – and Horatio doesn’t have the nerve or the time to argue with him about any of these, on top of his exams no less. That happens every winter, as if Hamlet is surprised summer and autumn left them high and dry _once more_.

All this while Horatio’s only issue is if Hamlet will make it through another month and make it to class.

Horatio lets the bud of his cigarette drop down and is about to go inside, when he feels his phone vibrate shortly in the inner pocket of his coat. He sighs, turns around and opens his coat to get the device out before Hamlet can send him the next message, asking why Horatio isn’t answering his ridiculous request – they all are ridiculous and Hamlet knows that Horatio thinks of it like this, but he also knows that Horatio will oblige anyway.

 _Be there in a minute_ reads the single speech bubble on the phone screen after Horatio unlocks his phone and Horatio doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to because a minute later he can see Hamlet to his left, sauntering towards him.

Today he’s in a black suit and a shirt just the same black beneath, a dark green tie and scarf completing the look and peeking out underneath the expensive black cashmere of his coat. He’s looking dashingly beautiful as always, a sight for sore eyes, and Horatio can already see the students around him glancing at him, only rarely being blessed with the occurrence of the Denmark close to the facilities of the physical sciences and mechanical engineering.

“Now, aren’t _you_ a vision,” Hamlet greets him as he halts to a stop in front of Horatio.

This close, Horatio can see the dark smudges under his eyes, making it possible for Hamlet to look even paler in daylight than all the days before and making Horatio start to worry in an instant, lines already forming on his forehead as his eyebrow knit together, a comment on his tongue.

“Keep the wits for later, Horatio,” Hamlet stops him before Horatio can even start to say something. “I’m just here to drop your lunch off. It’s not like you’ve eaten anything since you left this morning and that disgusting tuna sandwich _doesn’t_ count, okay.” A brown paper-bag is waved into Horatio’s face on eye-level, which is more endearing than threatening considering that Hamlet must raise his arm a bit more than usually for it to have effect.

Horatio snorts. “You can’t cook for shit. What’s supposed to be in there anyway?”

Hamlet looks seriously offended by the comment and lets the bag down in dramatic fashion. “I might not be the best cook, but my breakfast is killer and you know it. What’s in there, you ask? Just two grilled avocado sandwiches _med_ two apples of the kind you like and sushi from the place down the street,” he answers proudly, and a bit stubbornly.

“Okay,” Horatio takes the bag out of Hamlet’s hand and takes a quick glance inside. “And thank you, I appreciate it,” he adds and takes a step forward to place a kiss on Hamlet’s head, the brown hair tickling his nose as he moves down to drop another kiss on the Denmark’s forehead.

When Horatio steps back, his reward is a satisfied smile and shining green eyes, which warm his usually cool posture and aloofness. Hamlet sees the subtle change, of course, knowing what effect he has on the older man, and his smile grows even a bit wider.

“I’ll see you later. Don’t stay at the gym too late and get inside, your class already started,” Hamlet says and motions with his head towards the heavy doors of the building behind them, probably late to his own class but rather making sure that Horatio doesn’t miss anyone of his. One of them doesn’t need to worry about money or his education after all and it’s small gestures and moments like this that the difference between them is obvious. Not bad, no – Horatio can’t be arsed to blame his parents for not being rich or inhabitants of the monarchy and he’s not envying Hamlet for anything and he doesn’t want, or need, more – but it’s there, a noticeable reminder between them.

Horatio stopped caring about it years ago.

“Yes, love,” he tells Hamlet and presses a quick kiss to his temple again – a safe place to touch and a small and easy way to show his affection and gratitude in a fashion suitable for him, and them. Plus, it makes Hamlet blush.

Just like right now, when he’s moving away from Horatio in the direction he came from and it was the last thing Horatio could see – the red tint on his cheeks before he left.

Horatio watches him until he’s out of sight and only then he turns around to finally go inside, brown paper-bag in hand.

The shit he gets in his class for eating an apple in the middle of the lecture and being late in the first place is all worth it.


	4. say what you mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "The Ballad Of Mona Lisa" - Panic! At The Disco

The kiss is long and sweet and a bit cautious, nonetheless Horatio can feel Hamlet’s laugh echo against his mouth and when they move apart, there’s mischievous in his eyes. Of course, Hamlet barely does things that he doesn’t enjoy, and seeks out the fun in the actions he enjoys most. It’s an exhausting way to live when Horatio thinks about the many times Hamlet can be completely struck down by the world and living in general. It’s a tightrope dance between some sort of wild mania and gutter-deep depression and Horatio doesn’t know how Hamlet can manage it.

“You know, if you could focus on kissing me, Horatio, that would be great. I’m doing work for two here.” Hamlet laments while his hands clutch the lapels of Horatio’s black coat.

Horatio rolls his eyes at that, but doesn’t stop Hamlet from plastering himself against Horatio’s chest in a way that is more animalistic than human and not as cute as it looks. It’s warm and comforting and Horatio can feel Hamlet stop trembling against him, which makes it all worthwhile. As if anything in the company of the young Denmark isn’t worthwhile for Horatio. By now, Horatio would rather die than spend his days without him by his side.

So, there’s that.

“I _hate_ Denmark,” Hamlet whispers against Horatio’s ear after some moments of silence, in which Hamlet watched the scenery in the train window go by and Horatio watched Hamlet.

Horatio snorts, feeling the strands of Hamlet’s hair tingling his nose as he presses a kiss on the top of his head. “You don’t. You love Denmark. You hate your family,” he corrects the younger one while readjusting their position again. It’s not like Hamlet is insanely heavy – he weights nearly nothing and Horatio has no problem with picking him up – but Horatio feels how his limps are getting tired, the blood-flow in his thighs increasingly more difficult than half an hour before. He settles Hamlet back into his lap, but with the younger one’s legs resting on the free seat next to them.

“I can’t look out of the window now,” Hamlet comments.

“See me sobbing,” Horatio retorts in his driest tone and busies himself with a physics book he has to read for one of his classes. “Don’t you have to do stuff for your own classes? Assignments? Reading? Nothing?”

Hamlet shakes his head as each suggestion and rests his head back against Horatio’s chest, his thin fingers playing with the sleeves of Horatio’s coat. “No. Well, yes, but I’m not doing them now. Gotta spare that for Elsinore to annoy my Mother and Claudius. ‘ _Sorry, can’t come to this dinner. Sorry, have dinner without me. Sorry, but all these assignments. You don’t understand, of course Horatio has to stay_.’ You know the drill.”

The nonchalance in his voice betrays the way his fingers shake a bit, but Horatio doesn’t comment on it, just notes it into his memory like everything Hamlet does around him. He has nothing to say as well, so he lets Hamlet dose off nestled against him for the last few hours of their journey, and finishes the book in silence. Hamlet’s trust fund has done them some good, they’re travelling in style and quite luxurious – way too luxurious for Horatio’s liking – and have a whole train compartment for themselves. He even gets to start on an essay he has to do, perfectly trained in working while Hamlet is all over him and asleep and not waking him up in the process, but Horatio barely makes it to the main part of it before a voice comes over the speaker to inform everyone that it’s only fifteen minutes until the train arrives on its final destination.

So, Horatio packs everything up, checks his phone for any new message since they left the country (no one except Hamlet writes him, so he’s not surprised when the screen’s not holding any new notifications), and then wakes Hamlet gently.

The Denmark stirs for a few seconds until he blinks and yawns at the same time, then stretching himself in the small space between Horatio, the end of the seat and the window. His limbs miraculously stay in place once he’s done and Hamlet looks out of the window, his face souring all together when he discovers where they already are on their journey.

“No,” he sighs and falls back against Horatio, his whole body seemingly lax from desperation.

Oh, what a joy to be around the young Denmark once they’re back at his childhood home. Oh, how Horatio hates Gertrude and Claudius for what they have done with the sweet soul of Hamlet, how they turned him cold and black and rigid and shivering.

“It’s just two days, you can make it,” Horatio promises while he now also watches the flat and snowy landscape pass them by. He doesn’t even want to know how cold it is outside.

“I have to,” Hamlet replies and his green eyes catch Horatio’s dark ones with a sad look, his black clothes a stark contrast to the white scenery behind him and to the pale tone of his skin.

He _will_. Horatio will make sure of that.


	5. tied up in pretty young things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horatio is not that old, it's just he looks much older than he is due to his brooding expression. Hamlet looks younger than he actually is, as always. This turned... a bit more heated than I planned. And nobody died yet, but we'll soon be getting there.
> 
> This can work as a standalone - Hamlet doesn't have his Haphephobia in here, or at least not that bad - or you can see it as Hamlet being really unguarded due to the alcohol consume. This chapter is also a bit more fun than the previous ones, because sometimes I can also be that - lighthearted it is.
> 
> Title: "Hallelujah" - Panic! At The Disco

When Horatio first met Hamlet, he wasn’t looking for anything temporary. He’s just gotten out of some nasty business with his last girlfriend – not because they were still together but because the separation was a bit more time-consuming and work than Horatio has thought at first – and Wittenberg was a good fresh start for him to put a footing somewhere on his _own_ , without emotional baggage clinging to him. Plus, he was old enough to live and judge on his own terms.

He didn’t plan to buy the cute guy with the dimples a beer when he saw him across the room, maneuvering himself out of a conversation with what seemed to be two friends and moving through the crowd to halt at the free spot at the bar next to Horatio, slamming a crumbled bill on top of the counter and ordering some German beer. Horatio stops him then and there, in the moment the bar tender slides the bottle over the counter, and slaps the rest of the money he still has in his coat pocket into the open palm of the man behind the bar.

That’s clearly enough to get attention from the kid, who furrows his brows while fumbling for the beer. “Too kind of you, sir,” he drawls unimpressed and takes a sip of his drink. “But my mom taught me not to talk to strangers.”

Horatio snorts. “Too bad you’re here, then. Did your mom also teach you not to drink alcohol when you’re a minor?”

Now, the guy flusters, a nice shade of pink creeping up his neck and settling on his cheek, a nice contrast to the usually pale skin he seems to have going for him. And if Horatio gives him a run down once more, the guy is such a diametric in himself – skin as pale as the snow outside, clothes perfectly tailored but no centimeter of colour; it’s a full black ensemble, he’s skinny as heck but has a mouth for bragging and his sweet features don’t really match the spite he’s practically radiating as a defense mechanism.

He’s amazing.

“I am _not_ a minor. You’re just too old,” the kid retorts, matter of fact, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, beer bottle dangling dangerously from the bony fingers of his right hand.

Oh yes, he _really_ is amazing.

“Sometimes a man has to make sure. You know how it is around here. People start university at fifteen because they’re some kind of protégé of one of the professors or they’re a wild genius,” Horatio explains and puts his hands into the pockets of his coat – he distantly remembers that he actually was on his way out, having seen the night as fruitless but when he eyes the guy next to him, he just can’t get himself to go. Gorgeous green eyes still watch him warily but Horatio can’t be arsed now that he has a goal: Get those eyes to look at him in a whole different way.

“Fuck, I’m smart but not that smart. Sorry to crush your dreams,” he grins and takes another sip from his beer, seeming to relax a bit more when he hears the laugh leaving Horatio’s throat.

“What are you here for then?” Horatio asks once he got his posture back, smooth and cool façade all back in place. “I assume you’re a student.”

The guy shrugs. “Latin, Alt Greek, literature, some writing classes. All that kind of stuff,” he answers. “You?”

Horatio leans back against the bar, catching a glimpse of the two friends from before, who now watch him and his new conversation partner with curious interest. “Physics. And chemistry. Oh, and your friends are staring at me like I’m a zoo animal, but I’m not majoring in that.”

Now it’s Horatio’s opponent’s turn to fill the space between them with a laugh – it’s high and light and it reminds Horatio of the church bells he heard every Sunday morning at home from his childhood bedroom – and his eyes close and his whole frame shakes. It’s the first time Horatio sees someone laugh with his whole body.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” he wheezes out between more laughter. “They’ve been trying to set me up with someone since we moved here. I actually had a blind date today, but got stood up. They probably think it’s you and want to murder you now.”

Horatio arches one of his eyebrows up in disbelief.

“If I’m saying _‘kids these days’_ , how old will you think I am?” He asks and a sparkling grin settles onto the features of the beautiful strangers. Damn, he has some real nice cheekbones. It really was a good decision of Horatio’s to buy him a drink, his spontaneous streak making a rare occurrence and blessing him like that. Maybe God is real and Horatio should switch his major – Theology might suit him better when he keeps looking into those light-green eyes.

“Old enough to be my dad,” The guy muses but moves closer nonetheless until his hands grab the lapels of Horatio’s grey winter coat. “Not that I’d have much of a problem with that, _sir_.”

Horatio can feel a hot shiver run down his spine, something he hasn’t felt in a long while, and tries his best to not let it show when the kid presses their chests together, his chin resting close Horatio’s collarbone. Fuck, Horatio has the best ideas on his own.

“Well, then,” he breathes out. “Good to know I’m not. But maybe we can talk about age, after you tell me your name.”

The pale wonder smirks and his hands move under Horatio’s coat, resting on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of Horatio’s sweater and despite the lawyers of clothing feeling like fresh scorches. He gets up onto the tip of his toes until his lips are close to Horatio’s ear – he’s playing it up, putting on a show; probably for his friends; but Horatio can’t care less when he’s so close to drag him out by the collar of his black dress shirt.

“Hamlet,” is the quiet declaration that Horatio nearly misses.

Hamlet. Hamlet. _Hamlet_. The name fits him. Somehow, Horatio hears it for the first time in his life, but it fits him. Fits the spite and the sweetness and the sharp bones of his face and the delicate movements of his hands on Horatio.

“Nice to meet you, Hamlet,” Horatio greets, tests the name on his tongue. “Horatio.”

The kid – Hamlet – nods appreciating while his hands move down Horatio’s sides and settle on his hips, probably knowing full well what effect it has on Horatio, who’s cool exterior is breaking more with any passing second between them.

“Never heard that name before.” Hamlet’s lips move away from his ear and over his jaw and cheek, mouthing at the skin there and seemingly ignoring how the stubble there must be unpleasant. “You’re the first.”

Before his lips reach Horatios, Hamlet draws back and moves onto the balls of his feet again, that smirk now growing into a shit-eating grin. Still, Horatio can see how the red in his cheeks and his staggering breaths betray him as he puts the beer bottle blindly back onto the counter, the rest of it forgotten. Horatio would be offended because he paid for that and it’s not like he’s swimming in money, but his head can’t spare a thought about the matter right now. Not when the boy is looking at him like that – like he wants to devour Horatio and not the other way around.

That’s what Horatio meant. He wants to wreck him until the smug look is nothing more than a beg in those green eyes.

“Let’s get out of here. I live only a block away.” Horatio says, absently, as he can’t stop looking at Hamlet.

“I thought you’d never say it,” Hamlet answers, relief lightening the dirty look on his face.

They’re out before one of them can change their mind – they wouldn’t anyway – and walk three meters before Horatio crowds Hamlet against a wall and kisses him until they’re both breathless and the pink in Hamlet’s cheek is a flushed red.

 “I swear, I’m not that old.” Horatio tells him and kisses him once more, teasing his mouth open with his tongue and licking into him until Hamlet frantically grabs at the back of his head, between a breathy moan and a laugh.

“That _sounds_ promising.”


	6. there's never in-betweens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one! and back to the actual verse.
> 
> Title: Panic! At The Disco - Impossible Year

“I regret I ever met you,” Hamlet snarls with as much disdain Horatio has ever heard in him, the Denmark’s voice so bitter and _cold_ , matching his home in ways Horatio will never mention out loud once Hamlet has calmed down.

Horatio tries to appease him with careful motions of his hands, already half on the road to infinite annoyance. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, yes. I fucking do mean that and you know it,” Hamlet fires back, his thin frame looking violent in the way he moves across the room – to look for something to throw, presumably. That’s just how he is.

It’s all nothing new to Horatio. Fights are a rare occasion in their relationship but when they happen, Hamlet has the same philosophy as for everything else in his life: Go big or go home. His temper has the habit to explode at the smallest thing that puts him off and then there’s no turning back until Hamlet has let it all out, has shouted and snarled and screamed and spitted and has maybe thrown something he will replace the week later because he can’t stand Horatio mentioning it every time they’re around each other.

So, Horatio rolls his eyes and ducks when it’s enough to tip Hamlet off to throw the vase from their kitchen table. It shatters in pieces a few inches behind Horatio and right next to the window. God, Hamlet can be _so_ dramatic. 

“Calm down,” Horatio warns Hamlet as he picks shards off his shirt. He feels a prickling in his neck and shoulders and already knows small porcelain pieces are sticking there. He would be more concerned if that wouldn’t have happened before. Chrysanthemums are lying at his feet and water is soaking through the soles of his shoes.

Hamlet shakes his head urgently and ungracefully. “No, I _won’t_ calm down. Suck it, Horatio. And if you will say that just once more, I might as well throw the next thing I can find.” His glasses are slipping down his nose and he hastily puts them back into place, the movement taking a bit of the sharpness away from him, reminding Horatio that it’s Hamlet after all; sweet, bird-like and cautious Hamlet. _His_ Hamlet.

Who’s throwing a tantrum because of nothing, after all.

“You’re acting like I killed a man, or worse, talked to your parents. Hamlet, can’t you listen to me?” Horatio asks, not above pleading. He tried to tell Hamlet what’s been going on – Ophelia warned him that Hamlet thought something was off – but when he came home Hamlet was already waiting for him and it took him five seconds before he exploded into Horatio’s face, not even letting him take his coat off in peace.

Hamlet drags himself over to rest his hands on the back of one of their kitchen chairs and his eyebrows knit together. “What is there to explain, dear Horatio? I know everything I needed to know. I don’t know how there’s room for interpretation.”

 _Great_. Hamlet heard one side of the story and has bitten down on that bone and can’t let go now.

Horatio sighs. “I don’t know what Guildenstern told you, but there wasn’t anything going on with anyone. And I didn’t plan anything to hurt you, even less on purpose. As if I could ever do that. You know me, Hamlet, and you’re believing someone else rather than me?”

Hamlet doesn’t seem convinced by Horatio’s words and just tilts his head, wondering. “Yeah, _well_ ,” he starts. “I know Guildenstern longer than you.”

“Because that matters to you,” Horatio retorts, his usually calm self growing impatient with Hamlet’s stubbornness. “You do not care about stuff like that. You’re the last person I know who would _ever_ care about something as profane as that.”

It looks like Hamlet takes some weird satisfaction out of Horatio’s desperation. A sly grin is appearing on his face and Horatio could scream. What is going on with him?

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought,” Hamlet points out, his voice suddenly at normal volume for the first time in what feels like hours. Playing his game.

And Horatio is just so exhausted by all of it. “Stop it. Stop saying such bullshit, Hamlet. We both know it’s not true,” he moans, a migraine now forming behind his forehead and Horatio already knows that he won’t get any rest tonight. He feels like a too-tight rubber band about to snap at any given moment. Suddenly it’s him who could explode. He’s just so frustrated.

“You’re swearing,” Hamlet notices. “You never swear. This must take such a toll on you. What a sight that is – Horatio, always cool and calm Horatio, wound up by me not agreeing with him. Can’t you believe _that_!”

There’s such glee in Hamlet’s voice, such sickening happiness, and if Horatio ever looks back on that moment, he would say this was is, which put him over the edge. He’s snapping, loud and burning and uncoiling and not at all like himself, and it only takes a few steps until he’s in front of Hamlet and gripping him by the wrist of his left hand.

“ _Stop it_ ,” he spits, face inches away from Hamlet’s and voice full of steel he buried inside of him a long time ago, before he started to love Hamlet, before he even knew him.

Hamlet rips his wrist out of Horatio’s hand in a violent manner and takes several steps back, looking like he can’t take a real breath, drawing in on himself and clutching the joint Horatio just touched without permission to his chest, shielding it from Horatio. He doesn’t even dare to look at Horatio, just stays with his back against the wall and completely focuses on himself.

 _Fuck_.

Horatio recognizes his mistake now, recognizes how he did something he really shouldn’t have and never did before. He touched Hamlet. They fought and he had the nerve to touch Hamlet because he couldn’t keep himself in line. He fucked up. And in a way that never happened before.

He takes a step forward – no, not reaching out, he wouldn’t dare to do that now, not when he sees how sick Hamlet looks, how out of it he is – and bends his head a bit to be on Hamlet’s eye-level. Caution, that’s what matters now.

“Hamlet,“ he whispers and it makes Hamlet’s head snap up in that violent fashion again.

The Denmark’s green eyes look dimmed, _unkind_ , and he refocuses on Horatio.

“Don’t come near me,” he says and it’s the equivalent of a slap across Horatio’s face. It’s even worse than that because it isn’t where Hamlet stops. “Don’t touch me and get the fuck away from me,” his voice is shaking but he straightens his posture nonetheless. “Get out. _Get out, now!_ ”

It’s a bark. An angry and wounded bark.

It’s the thing Horatio never wanted to be addressed with, but he brought this all to himself on his own. So, he gets out, not even looking back when he can hear a loud thumb and then sobs coming out of the kitchen.


	7. praised from a new perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Panic! At The Disco - New Perspective
> 
> I listened to a lot of Les Miserables, I don't know if that influenced the tone of this one.

“ _Horatio, Horatio, Horatio_.”

Hamlet’s steps are echoing loudly through the church as he walks up behind Horatio, who is on his knees in the second row of the benches, hands intertwined and elbows on the bench in front of him.

“As someone who finds solace in religion, _I_ thought you not,” Hamlet continues, now standing next to him. “But, it seems, one never stops learning new things.”

Horatio rolls his eyes, which Hamlet can’t see, thankfully, before he retracts out of his position to heave himself up and onto his feet. When he stands, he’s taller than Hamlet and if that’s his only advantage when he has to defend his absence from whatever matter the Denmark found more important than Horatio doing what he wants to, then so it be.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and signals Hamlet with a tap of his finger to go on, because he already knows the younger one is dying to keep on talking.

“I looked for you everywhere, you know. Even asked Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. No one could tell me where you are, not even your weird people in college. But then, when I was lamenting about my misery to Ophelia while she worked, and suddenly she told me that ‘Oh, but it’s Wednesday evening, he must be in church!’ as if that means nothing. Horatio, does it mean nothing? I do not think so. It never means nothing to you, whatever you’re up to.”

Hamlet sounds insanely dramatic, as always, he’s just wired that way and Horatio would see it as something worth more of his concern if Hamlet wouldn’t make a big thing out of the tiniest occasion. It’s something Horatio is used to, so he just sighs half-heartedly.

“That there are things you don’t know about me is not something that crosses that mind of yours a lot, does it, love?” he asks and Hamlet genuinely considers for a moment before shaking his head.

“Yeah, thought so too,” Horatio responses. “It’s something I was brought up with as a kid. It’s a part of me, but not something I talk about a lot, or _ever_. I don’t go to mass and you know where I am during holidays like Easter or Christmas,” he explains, uncrossing his arms and loosening the tense muscles a bit.

It’s not very warm in the church – never is, that’s just like every church is constructed – but Horatio is fine in just his shirt, his coat still lying on the bench. Hamlet, however, seems to shiver constantly, his glasses about to fall off his nose and onto the tiles on the floor and his chin buried into his thick black scarf. It’s the only crack in his cocky exterior and Horatio knows better than to mention it in public. He still takes a step forward, a clear offering, and after a moment in which Hamlet just looks at him, letting Horatio’s words sink in, he moves forward until his shoulder collides with Horatio’s chest and his nose is buried into the collar of Horatio’s shirt.

Okay, that’s unexpected.

But Horatio would not be Horatio if he wouldn’t know how to deal with the situation. So, he carefully lifts his arms and waits until he can feel Hamlet’s nod against his shoulder to put his arms around the Denmark, holding him close.

Cold fingers sneak under his shirt and rest on his back, which makes Horatio hiss. “Fuck, you’re cold as ice,” he proclaims and Hamlet chuckles quietly.

“I walked through half the city to find you. It’s March. _Of course_ I’m not radiating heat,” Hamlet says. “We can’t be all like you, some kind of walking bonfire.”

The sentiment – well, it’s sweet, of course – somehow doesn’t seem to fit with that part of Horatio’s life. His belief has always been something he didn’t mention or shown around Hamlet and having him so close, basically melting against him to suck up Horatio’s warmth. It makes Horatio’s heart feel funnily heavy, like his own rib-cage wasn’t constructed to hold it in him and intact, and unwillingly brings him to smile as he buries his face in Hamlet’s soft hair.

“No divine intervention of what you’ll cook me for dinner yet as an apology for scaring me like that, baby?” Hamlet asks after a few moments of them just holding onto each other. His lips already working their way upwards Horatio’s neck through soft kisses.

Horatio snorts. “I’m sure God will answer my prayer any time now.”

Hamlet grins against his skin. “Well, I only prayed once but it seemed to work.”

“Oh,” Horatio exclaims, clearly a bit surprised. Hamlet as one for praying? Certainly _not_ in Horatio’s world-view. “What did you pray for, if I may ask?” he responses.

Hamlet’s on the tip of his toes now, his face perfectly lined up with Horatio’s and he kisses him deep and sweet before he answers. “For a _miracle_.”

And Hamlet kisses him again.


	8. led away by imperfect impostors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Panic! At The Disco - This Is Gospel
> 
> i am still alive, surprise, surprise.
> 
> tackling the real issues this time. and i might need to update horatio's cv for the main verse of this one. in short: he got drafted at 18, served, and in his mid-twenties started to take classes in wittenberg.
> 
> warning for ptsd and character death.

His chest is a carved-out, hollowed-out cage holding nothing. If somebody would put a palm over the left part of it, they would mistake the rhythmic beating for his heart, when, in reality, it’s nothing more but a testament to a muscle pumping blood through his veins. A mechanic thing reminding him he’s still alive, still on this godforsaken earth, still there.

_Thump, thump, thump, thump – one, two, three, four– staccato, staccato, staccato._

In time with his shallow breaths, heaved through tarred lungs that gave out when the other half was still alive, the thumping is ever-present in his head. His ears ringing in an ever-constant scream that’s louder than his thoughts when it’s day and quieter than them when it’s night, but not quiet enough. Never quiet enough.

Never enough.

There are gut-wrenching words in his brain, directed at him and said by him. They make him feel pale on the inside, like a disorientated wanderer pacing through the snow-filled lengths of Denmark’s coasts while the December air needles his veins with sharp tugs until they’re all cut open, until he’s bleeding dry inside of himself, until he’s empty of anything but his thoughts, his torturing thoughts.

_“Go. Just, just fucking go! Horatio, don’t. Don’t do this to yourself –“_

He remembers tranches in hot spring weather – a short-lived experience, spent with no one as company but himself and his gun. He longs for this. Longs for these memories to scream at him like they used to. He wants them to keep him up at night, make him sweat and stir and scream like they used to. He turns to these times when memories of Wittenberg and of Denmark’s aristocratic society is too much for him to bare. Is keeping him up and making him sweat and scream and stare at walls. Walls caving in, walls keeping him away.

Always these goddamn walls.

If he would have been just a minute faster, if there would have been one less wall. If he just –

_“Horatio, it’s too late. You’re –“_

Terror of wounds replaced with green eyes gazing at him and then the ceiling and actually gazing nowhere. Not facing him. Mud and dirt replaced with Norwegians coming through the doors, followed by medics and a weeping sound that must have been his own. His own gun replaced by the picture of two guns, still hot from the fire and not one of them in his hands.

All the images of war replaced by the images of death.

He knew this family would be his downfall.

 _He knew it_.

Every breath he takes feels like an anchor he has to retrieve from the violent currents of the nordic sea that hold it down.

_Thump, thump, thump – one, two, three._

There’s no bay in sight when his chest feels like a ship lost at sea, slowly giving up the hope of ever working properly again. It’s a steel-trap, a ship-wreck, a cage with nothing inside anymore. Guarded by so many walls that not even a tank could get through to make it work again.

His anchor is weighting him down wherever he goes and he can’t keep those green eyes from haunting him.

_Thump, thump – one, two._

His world is dull, except for the ringing in his ears.

_“Goodbye, my dear.”_


	9. no residue of a torturer inside of your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am still alive, you know. will i ever beta something before i post it? no. it's always fun to just go. can work as a prequel for number four and even number eight. the tone is very similar (esp. to number 4)
> 
> Title: "Crazy=Genius" - Panic! At The Disco

Horatio has put the phone down, the pinch between his brows even tangible to him after that hell of a conversation. “Hamlet,” he screams through the flat, knowing full-well that the Denmark is hiding out somewhere in the living room, acting as if he’s not there.

“ _Hamlet_ ,” Horatio screams again, after he doesn’t even get a noisy decline from the younger man.

After another second of silence, he can hear the thud of feet put onto the wooden floor and a heartbeat of looking at the doorframe to the kitchen later, he can see Hamlet’s brown-haired head in his peripheral vision. Horatio half-turns towards the left end of the hallway and zeroes in on Hamlet.

“What is it?” Hamlet asks sweetly, feigning innocence when they both _know_ who Horatio had to talk to.

The pinch between Horatio’s eyebrow feels like hardened concrete on a weather-worn building everyone is sure of collapsing any day. If he wouldn’t remember how good the past week was – even for someone like him – he’d be sure he must have been carrying it for years. Maybe he has. Maybe he has and just realized now. Hamlet always talks about the stern look on his face, maybe he meant that.

“Gertrude called. _Again_ ,” Horatio tells him, the answer more a sigh than a sentence.

“Oh,” Hamlet answers in innocence, which should be surprising when it’s coming from a person that had every innocence they possessed torn to shredded crumbles, yet it’s not. It’s very in character for Hamlet.

“Yeah,” Horatio deadpans. “Oh, indeed. She asks why you didn’t attend last weekend’s festivals and if you will be there in a fortnight,” he goes on. “Now, Hamlet, what festivals were there to attend? You never told me.”

Hamlet’s pale face pales a shade more and his fingers, that are curled around the doorframe, flex once before he answers. “There was _one_. This Friday to Saturday. But I was busy enough with studying for my Greek midterm and you know this, Horatio. Would I have ever forgotten to attend my mother’s celebrations in honour of my dear grand-aunt’s marriage if it wouldn’t be for my academic career?”

Horatio’s eyes narrow, a silent telling of him not buying the Denmark’s shit the slightest.

“Yes. You would have,” he answers and Hamlet scoffs.

“I am _wounded_ by these assumptions, my dear Horatio,” Hamlet replies, mouth agape in what only can be described as faux-shock.

Horatio rolls his eyes. “You haven’t visited since January and if you won’t be around until next January your funds will be cut dramatically. You know that I don’t care much about money or the high society of Denmark, but I care about you, Hamlet, and I can’t live to see the devastation in your eyes if we’d have to sell some of our stuff or – God forbid – move into one of the dorm rooms again. So, you have to visit at least once more before Christmas, because we both know we won’t be there over the holidays, not before the world comes crushing down around us here.”

Hamlet stares and blinks and moves away from the doorframe and towards Horatio, hovering before him, his green eyes wide awake and touchingly sincere in the warm glow of the lamp above their heads. Horatio has picked it out when they moved in because it reminded him of his childhood home’s kitchen lamp. A small bit of past he wanted to share and could bear to share with Hamlet.

“You are right,” Hamlet simply states, breath seeming to be caught at the tip of his throat. He swallows. “Of course, Horatio.”

“I am sorry,” Horatio still says, because he has to. “I know you don’t want it.”

“I have to,” Hamlet murmurs, staring down onto the blue of Horatio’s sweater. His hands touch the fabric, a surprising movement, and he repeats his murmur several times while clinging to Horatio’s clothing with his two hands.

“I’m so sorry,” Horatio repeats and carefully lifts his hand to rest on the back of Hamlet’s head.

Hamlet breaks into himself and folds himself close against Horatio’s chest then, seeking out the comfort of the older man in a gesture that’s as rare as his visits to Elsinore in the last years. Horatio keeps his hand on Hamlet’s back, the other one stays in the pocket of his slacks, a strained fist hidden from view. He can feel his knuckles hurt from the stress.

“I’ll come with you,” he whispers and Hamlet nods against his neck.

“I wouldn’t survive if you won’t,” Hamlet responses, his green eyes hauntingly sad when he captures Horatio’s dark ones with a look up.

Horatio nods. He knows it’s not an exaggeration. He still fears if he can hold his end of the bargain nonetheless.

“I wouldn’t,” Hamlet says again and it cuts like a knife.

Horatio’s nails edge into the skin of his palm. His knuckles hurt. There must be blood on the inner lining of his pocket now. When he looks away from Hamlet, the phone catches his eye. He bites down on his tongue so hard, that even if he’d speak he’d only scream.

“You won’t.”


	10. pull my heart out of my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead. What a shock.
> 
> Just needed to get away from writing and ao3 for a few months, but I haven't forgotten about these two lovely souls. Thank you for the comments in my absence that I checked in between christmas and new year's but forgot to reply to once the end of the semester and finals hit. I love you all, really, thank you for caring about my take on these two.
> 
> Works as a follow-up for the fight in chapter six. and unbeta'd as ever.
> 
> Title: Panic! At The Disco - Death Of A Bachelor

“You are a bad man.”

It must have been hours until Horatio returned back to their flat. Hours spent apart, Horatio wandering aimlessly through the city while regarding himself with his own form of self-punishment in not going back and trying to repair what is cracked and probably broken. Let Hamlet cool off by himself, let them have their distance and nurture the pain they both got out of this. It’s better in the long way, Horatio thinks, humbling, as well. Might help both of their stubborn heads to work back towards the other, to listen, for once, instead of only listening to themselves.

His return is cast in the darkness of the night spilling in through the windows scattered throughout the walls of their hallway, their living room and kitchen. The bedroom door is closed, though, so that’s where Hamlet probably has vanished to fend for himself. No doubt talking to Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, if not both, about Horatio and his short-comings, about the things he believes to be sure have happened, about gut-betrayal and something along the lines of sending Horatio to hell and back. It has happened before, it’s not like they _never_ fight. Hamlet’s temper tantrums and Horatio’s tendency to detach his own matters from their relationship are enough ground for spectacular fights like the one they just had today. But it hardly hurt so bad, or at least the hurt faded away before anyone could overstep set boundaries or insults sunk below knee-height.

To hear Hamlet’s voice echo from the kitchen into the hallway, like an arrow being shot and returning to the bow’s owner in a sick limbo, surprised Horatio. Let’s him pause before he can settle and get out of his shoes and coat, instead he turns in the dark and strains his ear towards the direction Hamlet’s voice comes from. The kitchen floor, it must be, not having moved since Horatio left him.

“You are a bad man, Horatio, and _I need_ you to know this. To realize.”

Horatio goes into the kitchen without a sound or taking his clothes off, staying in the door frame as his eyes take in the gray shifts of the room until they find Hamlet. The young Denmark’s back is pressed against a kitchen chair, legs folded under him and arms around his middle. He looks like a child left without his parents or another adult to take care of him, like a forgotten toy that no one got back to pick up from the place they put it aimlessly. It hurts to look at Hamlet’s body curled into itself, so devoid of any grace and bravado that usually gives form and live to him. To know this is Horatio’s fault, it is worse punishment than anything he could strike upon himself.

“I know I am,” he replies, nonchalance colouring his tone. He’s known this for years, since they cut his education short and handed him a gun and an olive-green uniform that seemed too elegant to fight in. “It never took much convincing from others for me to know.”

In the darkness, while leaning with his shoulder against the edge of the wooden door-frame, trying to keep the chains of his past away from the present, Horatio can see his lover’s eyes looking up from the ground and up to him, snapping in a familiarity he might compare to that of a cat’s before it jumps in either fright or bloodlust. With Hamlet, it can be one of the other, or both. Or it could be preparation for a strike that he will hide to deliver at a later date, eyes betraying the sentiment in his heart with their charged glance.

Maybe he will strike all along and throw Horatio out, like one deposits garbage they became tired of keeping.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that when I’m around. You know damn well that I hate it.” Hamlet then says, voice hoarse and strangely strained. A piano wire out of place, wrongly strung. About to snap if the wrong note is played. It’s very much in character for the prince to complicate himself in the face of honesty.

Right now, their feud seems far away, belonging to the sunlight of the day, while both of them have always been creatures of the night, belonging to the darkness and only each other. Slipping away from the solidness of the broad daylight, Hamlet always and more so, with Horatio following suit a step behind him. It all feels insignificant in the spectrum of their relationship, their partnership and companionship that lasted longer than people would have put bets on, longer than Hamlet’s family would have tolerated.

“I don’t know if you care for my explanation for what you heard from your … _friends_ , and, to be honest, I don’t care if you want to hear it, but I want to have this cleared up.” Horatio crosses his arms over his chest as his own form of defense before he continues. “My mother; you have met her, has been ill for a few months now. I spent a few nights and days a week in the hospital she resides in to care for her and see her since the doctor’s said time is limited.”

Hamlet’s sharp glare softens automatically with the pity Horatio would sure he’d receive upon the news. Which is exactly why he held back on this information for so long; to not bear it onto the Denmark and to not be wrapped in his pity. Horatio is not one for receiving it and Hamlet, who usually refrains from pitying, is unable in this case to hold it back. Family, after all, is a touching stone for him. And Horatio knows perfectly well that he won’t let this go.

“You should have said something,” is the uttered answer, the stubbornness of the words bleeding through between them in what can only be described reluctant. “It _doesn’t_ excuse what you did today, but it wouldn’t have let it come this far. And I think we both know that this would have been for the better.

Horatio shrugs. “Maybe. But I can’t change it now.” Shaking his head upon seeing Hamlet’s leg unfold from underneath him for his feet to touch the ground again. Opening up. “And I don’t await forgiveness from you, anyway. I am sorry for what I did and I also need you to know that, but I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Hamlet’s head tilts, in question or defiance Horatio is not sure, and his eyes roam over Horatio’s standing frame before they settle back to answer the older one’s look again. It’s like an electric wire reaching out towards Horatio, like a current being filled again between them, and the sliver of acceptance feels like a hundred volt running through his veins.

“You’re a bad man, Horatio, but that doesn’t mean I love you less.”

The verdict is clear, the storm settled with the prince’s sentence. It’s like being able to breathe again, to be allowed to, and it hits Horatio square in his chest. He wouldn’t call himself a man depending on others, not in any way, but his relationship with Hamlet is so intricate, such a big and all-consuming part of his life, that any cut away from that would have felt like a life-time sentence of suffering. The greatness of his emotions, the length of his love – he hardly shows them in the open, but they are there and present, they are _real_ , existent, and Hamlet knows it. To not revoke Horatio the right to be at his side; it is a victory that he can’t put into words. How it fuels the fire, the beating in his chest, from the inside out.

Like lightning striking, Hamlet’s arm reaches out towards Horatio, palm up and considering, and when Horatio picks up the Denmark’s eyes, they are filled with an invitation that the rest of his face wouldn’t betray. He steps away from the door and takes the leather glove off his left hand, so his fingers can intertwine with Hamlet’s, folding into a lock Horatio knows so well and could never get enough of. The simple touch is a bigger promise than the words neither of them speaks could hold.

“I love you too,” Horatio whispers back into the decreased darkness between them.

The answer is the squeeze of his hand, a pressure filled with mutual understanding, and it is enough to get him through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head Horatio looks like Andrew Scott and Hamlet a lot like a mix of Andy Mientus and Max Irons... somehow. Don't ask me why, that's just what my imagination came up with. Generally said: Horatio: black hair, dark eyes, taller than Hamlet. Hamlet: brown hair, light-green eyes and more or less bony, and pale, of course. 
> 
> But feel free to imagine them mostly as who you prefer.
> 
> Chat with me on tumblr (moonmccoy) or, idk, leave a comment here if you want! I love to chat and I don't bite.
> 
> friendly reminder: you are loved, you are enough and you will achieve great things. you are right just the way you are, a living and breathing thing. keep going.


End file.
